


An Acorn

by khazadspoon



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Gen, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-03-01 08:44:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2766905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khazadspoon/pseuds/khazadspoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He buried the Acorn deep beneath the mountain, in one of the great Dwarven kingdoms. He buried it in the hand of Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King under the mountain. In one large, gnarled and pale hand he hoped that wherever Thorin was, he would find it.</p>
<p>Perhaps, even, he would treasure it. They had been friends at the end, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Acorn

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by that little acorn that Bilbo has in Erebor. Kerrie and I decided it would be a good way to fix things if Thorin came BURSTING OUT OF A TREE in the mountain so I wrote this on the train home for her.

An acorn.

A small, brown acorn that appeared in every way unremarkable to nearly all of the races of Middle Earth. It would likely rot if left out of the ground to weather and decay. But, if it was buried and treated with care, it would grow into a great tree. That tree, given time, would let loose more acorns to grow more trees.

For you see, acorns are not as unremarkable as they seem.

Bilbo knew this. As a great lover of all things green and growing, he knew of the life that was held within that tiny acorn. He knew that he could take it back to the Shire and bury it. He knew that he could let it germinate and grow into a glorious tree that would live for generations in his home.

And yet, he did not take it back to the shire. Instead he buried it deep beneath the mountain, in one of the great Dwarven kingdoms. He buried it in the hand of Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King under the mountain. In one large, gnarled and pale hand he put the acorn and hoped that wherever Thorin was, he would find it.

Perhaps, even, he would treasure it. They had been friends at the end, after all.

Bilbo went back home to the Shire. He took his spoons back from the detestable Lobelia Sackville-Baggins and rebuilt his tarnished home. Soon his larder was full. Soon his garden began to thrive again. He tried not to think of Beorn’s glorious garden, his honey and animals.

He tried not to think of many things, but that is another story for another time.

For, far away over misty mountains cold, an acorn lay under rock and stone. A small, brown acorn that appeared in every way unremarkable to nearly all of the races of Middle Earth lay in the hand of a dead king. It had no water, no light, no reason to do more than rot and crumble in that deathly iron grip. And yet it didn’t crumble. It grew. First a small green shoot, reaching out between cold fingers, then a leaf and another leaf. The leaves unfurled white and glittering in the darkness.

The acorn became a sapling. The sapling was strong, not an ordinary oak to be felled by even the sharpest axe. It grew thick and tall, the boughs stretching high and far to fill the cavern. Along with it’s great boughs came a soft light. The tree’s leaves seemed to glint and shimmer, it’s bark littered with veins of gold and silver, of pewter and copper. New buds started as small gems. The trunk and branches grew thick and sturdy as though modelled after the Dwarves themselves. It grew proud and fair above the tombs of Thorin, Fili and Kili untouched for thirty years. Dain did not let any of his kin pluck the gems or glittering leaves from it’s branches, he did not let his kin take ore from it’s trunk. It was a gift from Mahal in honour of their sacrifice. To defile it would be to defile their creator.

Bilbo heard little from Erebor for a long while. News from Dale, from the Bardlings, came little but often enough. Tales of Bard’s skill at politics, his prosperity and leadership. Some tales of Erebor’s riches and Dain’s generosity came to the Shire in letters from Bofur and sometimes Gandalf. It was preferable to bad news despite how brief it was. Bilbo was glad of the near silence.

But, on the thirty fifth year since that battle that stole his happiness from him, Bilbo received news.

A tree had grown in Erebor where no tree had grown before. And from that tree had been born three Dwarves.

In likeness they were uncannily like those who’s tombs the tree had eaten. As impossible as it seemed the tree had borne Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, and his two sister sons, Fili and Kili. The scars from their travels with the Company remained. Their hair was streaked with silver and gold. Their eyes shone in the dark like the Arkenstone itself.

Bilbo had been drinking his tea when he read the letter. The cup had slipped from his fingers and smashed on the ground. Distantly he could feel the scalding liquid on his toes, but it seemed so far away…

He half expected Gandalf to appear beside him and offer to take him on another adventure, to take him back to the mountain. But no such event occurred.

A few days later while he was contemplating the packed bag on his table, there came a knock at the door.

"Balin? Oin?"

"And Gloin, don’t forget me laddie. I know it’s been a long time but I still have my feet on this earth," the Dwarf stepped forward with a nod of his head, pushing past and rubbing his hands together. "Let us talk inside."

Bilbo let the three Dwarves in gladly. It had indeed been a long time.

"Did you receive our letter?" Balin asked as he sat beside Bilbo. The Hobbit nodded. "Then you will understand why we’re here."

"Understand? Why on earth would I understand?" He poured a large cup of tea for each Dwarf, already fearing for the state of his sugar bowl.

Oin put his hands carefully on the table and steepled his fingers. “They have been reborn,” he said softly, a touch of reverence in his voice. “Reborn from the earth in an unnatural oak tree. They are currently being held in the King’s chambers while the elder Dwarves try and figure out what, exactly, happened.”

"Thorin is distant. He has not tried to take the throne back from Dain. It doesn’t seem like he is even going to consider it!" Gloin interjected with a wave of his fist. He took a drink of his tea, little finger pointed outward. "Madness, the lot of it."

Bilbo shook his head absently. “Alive..? No…” He didn’t believe it. He would have to see it with his own eyes before it became truth. Not even a Dwarf as stubborn as Thorin Oakenshield could return from death. But if there was the slightest chance that his friend, his dearest friend, was alive… Surely it was his duty to go to him?

"Bilbo," Balin said almost under his breath, "he has asked for you. By name. Thorin wishes to see you, if you will come."

The request, though not entirely unexpected, made his heart ache.

"If you come to Erebor there will be rooms for you to sleep. There will be ample food and entertainment, the three of us will accompany you on the road," Balin continued gently.

"You only have to say yes," said Oin with a dip of his head.

"How could I say no?"

They set off just after dawn, their bellies full and warm clothing on their backs. The ponies were stout and friendly. They made the ride rather pleasant.

Gloin insisted they skirt around the woodland realm, his heart still set on distrust of the elves. The three Dwarves bickered and sang for the whole journey, only ceasing their banter when they slept. It was a comfort to hear the sounds again. Bilbo had missed the jolly laughs, the somber tales and raucous songs that came wherever Dwarves went. The food wasn’t as good as he remembered, though, but no doubt that was due to Bombur’s absence.

Erebor was soon looming in the horizon. The mountain was just as tall and daunting as on that first sighting. And, as with that first sighting so many years ago, Bilbo’s heart leaped in his chest. Bilbo wondered if there had been any great paintings of it yet. He would have liked to have bought one.

A great horn blew as they approached the gates. The doors opened and a host of Dwarves came out to greet them.

"Masters Balin, Oin and Gloin! Welcome home. And this, I assume, is Bilbo, the Barrel Rider?" A voice as smooth as silk and yet strong as the mountain itself asked.

Balin stepped forward and bowed to a Dwarf with a dark blue cloak and a short bejewelled beard plaited intricately. “Lady Dis, it is my honour and pleasure to introduce Bilbo Baggins of the Shire.”

The lady Dwarf, with eyes Bilbo had seen in Fili’s face bright and cunning, bowed her head to him. “Master Bilbo, we meet at last.”

Bilbo bowed low. “Lady Dis.”

They were escorted through to the main hall. Bilbo’s soul soared to see it glittering and full of life. Dwarves went about their business; inspecting jewels, discussing trade with neighbours, sharing tales of boldness with one another. The walls shone, each pillar standing undamaged in the carven hall. The lanterns and torches gave the room a golden hue that lacked the cold glimmer of gold, much to Bilbo’s relief. He remembered the darkness and the stench with an odd mix of fondness and revulsion. But it was so good to see the mountain in all it’s splendour…

Lady Dis, her hair dark and streaked with grey, showed him to a room that seemed to him almost as splendid as the main hall. It was large and warm, heated by a roaring fire opposite the fur-laden bed. The room seemed more fit for Kind Dain than for a Hobbit visitor.

"Please make yourself comfortable. There is a small pantry for you just to the left here," she pointed to the room and stepped forward, brushing her soft bearded cheeks to his in turn. "My brother, foolish though he was and… is, will wait until you are ready."

She turned to leave, her eyes wet with tears despite the beautiful smile on her lips. Bilbo held his hand up. “Wait!” He pursed his lips for a moment, hand hovering in the air. “I… I don’t wish to sound hasty, but, I don’t want to wait any longer. Can- can I see him?”

Dis almost seemed surprised by the request, her eyes widening a fraction and the jewels in her beard twinkling in the lamplight as her jaw moved. “Now?” Bilbo nodded. “Very well. I will send him here; that way you shouldn’t be disturbed.”

Bilbo thanked her and sat on the bed when she left. The furs were impossibly soft to the touch, the fibres warm and tough. Like Dwarves, he supposed. Perhaps that was the attraction between the two? Thick furs suited the Dwarves because they, too, we’re tough but warm.

He waited, heart beating wildly in his chest and his palms starting to sweat, for the better part of half an hour. Just when he had decided to look for something to eat, there was a knock at the door.

A moment later it opened.

A figure, broad and dark, stepped through into the room. And there he stood; Thorin. As stern and beautiful in his pride at that moment as he had been thirty five years ago. The air in Bilbo’s lungs fled, his knees buckled, and the reality of the situation struck him hard and fast.

"You’re really-"

He couldn’t speak properly, such was the intensity of his emotion. It was as though the thick furs on the bed had bundled up in his throat.

Thorin carefully, slowly, walked across the room. Lamp light flickered in his eyes and made them seem like stars. “Bilbo,” he uttered in a low voice as deep and echoing as the mountain itself. He reached out and touched the Hobbit’s face. “Bilbo.”

Bilbo opened his mouth to speak, but Thorin put his hand behind the Hobbit’s head and pressed their forehead’s together. His fingers cradled Bilbo’s skull, a slow and merry smile spreading across his lips. Bilbo knew that smile. He knew that smile well.

His arms found their way to Thorin’s middle and clasped at the hefty waist with all their strength. After decades convincing himself that everything that could have been done that day had been done, he could finally let go. Thorin was alive. He didn’t need to be avenged or mourned for. Bilbo’s shoulders sagged as the relief flooded him in marvellous wave after marvellous wave.

There was a scar on the Dwarf’s face, pale and shining. It didn’t detract from the regal set of his face, in fact it seemed to add to it. Kings who fought in battle often bore scars.

"I was afraid you would not come," Thorin said after a few long minutes. He parted their brows and lay his hands gently on Bilbo’s shoulders.

The Hobbit quirked his lips and darted his eyes around the lavish room. “They told me you asked for me by name; how could I refuse a king?”

Thorin shook his head. He seemed older though he had not aged; his eyes were deeper, his voice more melodious. “I am no king, Bilbo. That time has passed. It may surprise you but I am glad of that,” he added with a smile.

"Then… What will you do now?" He asked, trying to imagine Thorin without his mountain.

"I do not know, but I was hoping you could help me with that. Perhaps, if it is favourable to you, I could accompany you back to the Shire? My first visit was rather… brief."

Bilbo blinked several times as if to use the action to make sense of the request. What could possibly interest a Dwarf in the Shire? They had little metal work, no mines and only a few glittering curiosities. Thorin would find no activity or interest for for a Dwarven king unless he raided the Barrows and fought the Barrow Weights.

"You wish to come to the Shire?" He asked, just to make sure.

Thorin nodded, his arms falling to his sides.

"I’ll have to make up the guest bedroom," Bilbo murmured, a smile forming on his lips. Thorin laughed, a low and quiet sound.

It was good to hear him laugh again. 


End file.
